The Disappeared
by LadyPhineas
Summary: What happens when Sam and Dean are called out of the states to take a look at weird hauntings occuring in a castle in rural Devonshire? What's happening, and how far will the boys get pushed?


**Title:** The Disappeared

**Pairing:** None. Gen.

**Rating:** PG, for now.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything.

Author's notes: The premise for this fic will take place in Devonshire, England. And, since I'm not English/British, some things may be a little off. I live vicariously through an English friend of mine, though, so I'm hoping that'll help me pull some weight. This is purely a work of fiction.

>>>

The sun was churning reds and dark oranges in steady smears across the sky when Sam returned with breakfast in the form of coffee and morning specials.

Dean was sitting on his bed, cell phone held in one hand as he fidgeted around with the other. His face drawn up and tight.

"Hey, brought you some wholesome food and old-ass coffee. What're you up to?" Sam put the takeout bags down on the ancient table by the window as he made his way around Dean to peek.

"Dad sent us coordinates, again. And a phone number." Dean was scratching at an invisible itch on his head, expression bemused and just a mite troubled.

"Did you look up the points online?" Sam asked, even as he went to retrieve his laptop from its case and boot it.

"No, I just got it. Where the hell do you think he's sending us now?" Dean pursed his lips and dropped his phone on the bed, walking towards Sam.

"He's obviously sending us to--" Sam paused and trailed off as he input the plot points and waited for a result. "Well, I guess we're heading to Devonshire, England." Sam squinted and unconsciously leaned forward towards the screen, wondering if his vision sucked as bad as he initially thought it did.

He glanced across his shoulder, where Dean was wavering above him. "_Why_ is he sending us to Devonshire, England?"

"Because whatever it is is bad enough that he thinks we should check it out. Who knows--maybe the thing that killed mom is out of country, vacationing there for the holidays."

Dean started packing their scattered belongings in an abstracted and hurried fashion, shoving anything any which way. Sam had the strange sensation of déjà vu prickling at his conscious. He was going to strangle Dean. Or Dad. Just as long as it took one of them out of the picture.

"I can't believe you're going to have us run overseas just because Dad thinks there's paranormal shit that we've got to look into. Again. I think this country's messed up enough with supernatural happenings for us _not_ to find extra gigs in other continents."

Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes at him, but Sam merely ignored his reproachful glare.

"It's important--and dangerous--enough that Dad thinks we should head out. And, you know," Dean made a weird and very vague sweeping gesture with his hand, "take an airplane." He turned his back to Sam. "That flies thousands of miles above sea level. A hunk of metal. That flies."

Dean was already freaking out and they weren't even at the airport yet. This trip was adventure-promising; Sam didn't think he'd get bored, at least.

"You are unbelievable," Sam said, feeling dispirited and cranky.

"I think the word you're looking for is 'special'." Dean smiled sardonically, slap-patting Sam on the cheek as he turned off the laptop and shoved it non-too-gently back in its case, always in a rush.

"They call people special because it isn't nice to call them deranged freaks to their face." Sam bit out, finally realising that he didn't have a choice in the matter. They were going to go whether or not he wanted to. It would keep with the program and routine thus far established, a voice niggled in the back of his mind.

"Hah, funny man. Did they teach you how to be funny at college, Sammy? Because I think you skipped out on that class one too many times." Dean said in such a pleasant manner that one would think they were discussing the finer points of crocket over tea and crumpets.

Sam accepted defeat with the grace of one having been put in similar situations enough times to know when to step off. "I hate you," Sam said, frustrated, as went to the bathroom and slammed the door.

"Love you too, bro'!" Dean called out.

>>>

"I know you don't want to go. I do, really. But it's kinda embarrassing knowing that there are chicks out there that are more ballsier and manlier than you, Sammy. Chin up, dude," Dean said. His expression and tone implying that he was doing Sam a favor by being so upfront and forthright with him on his shortcomings.

"I hope you're aware that I really do hate you. Not I'm-going-to-pretend-to-hate-you-to-make-you-feel-bad hate, but real, true hatred," Sam said.

"Yeah, yeah. Hate me enough to shoot me." Dean chuckled, trying to instil humour into something very devoid of it.

Sam sighed, closing his eyes. "Dean, I'm--"

"Dude. Let's not up your girl marks higher than they already are. Just drop it." Dean turned to glance at him, expression and tone matching in severity. His attention drifted to the road again.

"Okay."

"But be a sweetheart and call the number that was texted along with the coordinates. See if it has service. What it's about."

Sam rolled his eyes tiredly at his reply but grabbed Dean's phone when he handed it to him. He called the number--a bit surprised that it actually went through--and leaned back, waiting for somebody to pick up or an automated response.

Safe to say, he was more than surprised when a squeaky, breathy, low female voice ventured from the other line.

"Hallo? Anyone there? Edgar, is that you? You _insolent_ boy." The voice said, her words melding.

"Um, no. This is Sam Winchester. I was given this number by a -- a friend. Who am I speaking to, may I ask?" Sam rushed, flummoxed.

"Samuel? Oh, love, so good of you to call!" The voice cooed rapturously. "Your father said I'd be hearing from you. Wonderful man, he is. Not good, but great. Very workmanlike. Very fierce. Of course I've never met him in person but--"

Sam cut in. "Yes, this is Sam." He and Dean exchanged suspicious looks. "Ah, my father called you? Informing you of our arrival? And where are we coming to, exactly? I'm afraid we've been left a bit in the dark." Sam asked smoothly, voice pleasant and shy enough to make him appear gentlemanly.

"Of course your father told me, dear! Hah, to think he wouldn't… and George will pick you up from the airport, lovely. Bald, rotund man with a blastedly giddy demeanour. Your brother with you, isn't he? George'll bring the both of you to the estate. It's a great, big fancy-shmancy sack-full of bricks, it is. You won't miss it." She finished resolutely, gaining apparent control of her flighty emotions throughout the conversation.

"Thanks. And I'm sorry--I didn't catch your name."

"Oh, what's in a name, love! Unless my name's Juliet, then that would be a tragic coincidence, indeed. My name's Fiona. Think you can remember that? It's a unique name, my mum used to say, poor soul." Her voice seemed to break a little. "Ahh!" She yelled into the phone. "Must go, dear, Gilbert has a temper that even my father -- the old, barmy codger -- would find impressive. Stop that you wretched, little fiend! Un_hand_ the cat!" And suddenly, the line went silent.

"That was Fiona." Sam said, amazed.

"Well, how about that," Dean said, speeding down the exit on the highway that lead towards the airport.

**TBC**

Please, if you've got a few seconds to waste, tell me what you think of it. It would please me greatly. :)


End file.
